This time last year I had no idea what was in store. I hadn’t met Snow or Rhys or Relyt. I hadn’t even begun considering my transition, and I wasn’t even ready to ask for the help I needed.

I realized today that asking for help is a big problem for me. Because of how I was raised, having to ask makes me feel ashamed and emasculated, but I realize now that it shouldn’t be the case.

I’m so glad I asked for Rhys’ help when I did, although it did put too much stress in all of our lives at the time. I doubt I would still be alive if I hadn’t. I’m so glad Relyt insists on helping me so often, because I would be an overwhelmed nutcase if he didn’t, and I’m so grateful that he is by my side.

My life has changed so much in this last year, and I am impressed that I dealt so well with it. Even those who haven’t seen me in recent years have commented on how much happier I am, and those who see me every day can’t help gushing about how much more confident I am in myself.

I am finally ready to say that I am not a victim anymore. I may still need to process everything, and I may occasionally trigger or have flashbacks. Yet I am not bound by those chains of the past. I am a SURVIVOR;

My body is finally forcing me to process all the mess that has been my life for the last couple months now. No amount of distraction can prevent it any longer, and I am drowning.

I have reached a depth of depression that I have not felt in years. I have only felt like this two other times in my life, and I honestly don’t know how I made it through.

The first was back in 2009. I was 16, and at the time, I felt like my life was worthless. I couldn’t sleep at all, and though my weight never fluctuated, I would cycle between eating absolutely nothing and eating everything in sight. I had no motivation to do any homework, but at least I maintained perfect scores on my tests, otherwise my parents might have cared. I would live off my adrenaline for weeks until my body physically couldn’t function anymore. Then I’d crash for 24 hours. I told a “friend” how I was feeling, and she told me to try cutting because it worked for her. I sat in the shower that night with a razor blade against my wrist, but I just couldn’t get up the courage. Heathen watched from the corner as I cried, then slowly stepped forward to take the blade from me. Then he introduced me to D/s. He knew exactly how to play off my emotions to get me to follow his orders, and I never questioned him. But within a week, I was back to that brink. When I knew I was alone, I went to the medicine cabinet in our kitchen and grabbed all of the pain medications my dad never finished after his back surgery, and I swallowed every single one. There were approximately fifty pills. Then I laid down and slept. I was trapped in a night terror from Friday night at 7 pm until Sunday morning at 6 am. The pills never even made me sick, and no one even noticed they were gone. I sat up in the rocking chair by our living room window until time to get ready for church, and at church, I told that same “friend” what I had done. She told me that I was lying, and that I just wanted attention. Then she told her parents who told my parents, and when my parents asked me about it, it was all a joke. Like “So I heard the craziest thing! C told her mom and dad that you tried to overdose on pills to commit suicide!” and I confessed. I told them the truth, and they said I was lying because I never even got sick. I don’t remember how or when I started feeling a little better. I was still depressed just not as much.

In 2011, I met HE WHO SHALL NOT BE NAMED. Everything started out sweet, but when it turned sour, that’s when I fell into that bottomless pit of depression again. I was struggling to figure out what I wanted to accomplish in my life. My teachers accused me of being anorexic or bolimic, but I wasn’t either. I was back in that cycle of not eating then eating everything. My estrogen had really hit me, and I had my first period, and that’s when my emotions flew out of control. I was always crying. I burst into tears in the middle of classes for no reason, and on more than one occasion, had to run to the bathroom to pull myself together. The insomnia hit me again, but not as hard. I slept about once every two weeks, but that was only because I cried myself to sleep because I was crying so hard that I literally exhausted myself. I fell behind on homework, but maintained good grades. I had no motivation. I spent all my free time in my safe place. I considered suicide, but I knew that if I failed again, HE would make things so much worse. It wasn’t until HE left me that I was able to get my life back under control.

I hope I’ll survive this time. My only consolation is that I have support this time.

Exhaustion doesn’t even begin to describe what I’m feeling right now. I woke up this morning as though I didn’t get a single second of sleep. It’s not as if I dreamt or had a nightmare, more like I closed my eyes and lost seven hours.

I look like death warmed over, but I guess that means I’ll be closer to my patron, Hel, today.

I have been running non-stop, and work has been running me ragged. I just got a second job, and though I don’t start until Saturday, I am already dreading having to work so much to stay afloat. I wish I could just stop, take a break, take a nap, enjoy a good book, or take some time to write or draw, but I can’t.

I run from one appointment to the next, work, support groups, attempt to do chores, and crash every single night, with no real sleep.

I just woke up; my throat so dry that I couldn’t scream though my body was trying… Sweat pouring off my body, I’m trying to force my breathing to slow… I’m so tired; my eyes are burning, but my latest nightmare still chases me, so I know I can’t close my eyes, or it will overtake me again…

I dreamt that I had finally become a Marine, and they had deployed me for six months to the gods only know where. I had just arrived home and was so excited to see my wife.

Yes, those of you who know me did read that correctly, my wife. In this dream, I was presenting as fully female and married to a woman.

I went to our favorite place, an out-of-the-way bookshop, located in an old cabin in the woods. Beautiful building, high gables, rough cut exposed beams, the whole nine yards…

As I strolled into the building, the clerk motioned with her thumb, indicating I should go in a back room. Walking past the shelves in the small movie section, I notice they actually carry VHS tapes, in addition to the DVDs that line the shelves. It strikes me as odd. Nevertheless, I continue past them into the back room. As soon as I enter, the door slams shut behind me and the lock clicks…

Again, odd, but I have other things on my mind as my wife steps out from between two bookshelves. She is beautiful, curvy, dirty blonde hair pulled into pigtail braids that fall just below shoulder length. I run to her to give her a hug, but she stops me: a hand pressed firmly against my sternum.

“What did you bring with you?” she asks. I baffled by the question, but I pull out my knife. It’s a black five-inch tactical-style blade. The sharp edge glistens as it springs open, and I hand it to her, handle first. She looks it over, appraising, as I watch, one eyebrow raised in confusion.

“I brought a knife as well,” she states matter-of-fact, and places my now-closed knife in her left pocket before producing a box cutter from her right pocket. Four clicks echo in the small room as the razor sharp edge is produced, and she places it against her wrist.

“Baby, no!” I beg, and I reach out to stop her. She just laughs.

“You think I brought this for me?” That cold laugh rings out again, chilling me to the bone. “Oh, baby, have you got it wrong.” She turns the blade on me. I quickly back away and move behind a queen-sized bed in the corner: unassuming, it doesn’t really seem to fit in here amongst the bookshelves, but a beautiful handmade quilt adorns it anyways.

I get the strange feeling that there is someone else in the room. Pulling a bottle of perfume from my pocket, I bend down and spray several shots along the underside of the bed. A commotion comes from under the bed, and a large stuffed giraffe, the kind you might win at a carnival, is pushed out towards my feet, and a large man crawls out, cussing, and rubbing his eyes. He’s about six foot tall, brown hair, dressed in jeans, a red flannel shirt, and a camo hat.

“You see this?” He motions with a small, revolving handgun that fits neatly in his palm. “It’s a 45.” I reach for it, and he laughs, stepping closer, and snatching his hand out of my reach. “Don’t worry about that little ol’ thing. You should be worried about my 1911.” My eyes search his hip and land on a chrome glint peeking around his left side. I step back into the corner, as my wife steps forward and hands him the box cutter. The blade glints as it comes down, scoring my chest. I manage to catch his wrist as I scream.

“Go ahead and scream,” my wife laughs, again that cold laugh. “No one cares.” My hand drops in shock, and the man tries to cut me again, but I turn, catching the blade on my right shoulder. Vaulting over the bed, I make for the door and kick it open. A paper sign, flutters to the ground, as I run out, it reads: “Horror Movie Screening”.

“No one would care,” I thought as I headed for the door, but the clerk blocked me, laughing maniacally.

“There’s no where to run!” she screamed, but I turned and ran up the ladder, as blood poured from my arm. Reaching the loft filled with bookshelves, I searched for an escape. Climbing on top of an exposed beam with my left arm, I run toward a window in the front wall of the store. I crash through it and roll down the roof, landing on my feet in the grass below, and I begin to run towards the woods.

A shot rings out, and pain blossoms in my left side. I try to run, but the forest safety is elusive. The man and my wife overtake me, each wielding a blade. She tears into my left thigh, betraying me with my own knife, as he slices across my forehead, my right eye soon useless.

My subconscious is screaming by now that this is just a dream. “Wake up! Wake up!” Kingair screams as Kit whimpers.

I have spent five years worrying about your opinions. Dreading the “I told you so” that is going to come from my side of the family. Dreading the “You can stop the cycle of divorce” from his side of the family. And honestly I am tired. Tired of being hurt. Tired of allowing this bullshit to affect my health, my job, and my life.

It is so sad that although I was exhausted at 8 pm last night that I forced myself to stay up until almost midnight waiting on even just a reply to know what time he who cannot find his own fucking keys was planning on coming home so that I wouldn’t neglect the safety of the other three people, including myself, who live in this apartment by leaving the door unlocked all night. When I didn’t get a reply, I left my keys hidden by the door all night long and attempted to get some sleep. At this point, I don’t even know if by some chance someone else managed to find them and steal them. I then woke up a little after 4 am and realized my husband never came home. I have no idea where he is. He is not responding to my messages. He never bothered to call. If I had a phone right now, I would honestly be waiting on phone call from the police telling me he was dead. And guess what, I still haven’t been back to sleep. I got maybe four hours of sleep, but I am more worried about where he is and if he is ok to get any more sleep. And this is typical!!! This may have been a Saturday to Sunday incident this time, but the time before that was a Sunday to Monday. I had to go to work and listen to my boss tell me that I cannot let my home life affect my job performance. I had to go to work and put up with eight screaming potty-trainees. I physically can’t anymore.

I just had this conversation with a friend:

6:28AM

me: At this point, should I just go get my keys?

friend: About 10 am ish, go get em

me: I’m still worried that my keys could get stolen

friend: Also…. *hugs* morning Eh…. true, at least go check on em

me:What should I do? He obviously has no desire to tell the truth, no regard for how worried I get when he doesn’t show, no regard for how much sleep I get at night because I’m worrying about him…

friend: It… might be time to stop worrying about him. If he’s not going to worry about you, why should you to him?

me: How do you stop worrying about someone you love?

friend: If he’s putting you through this, it’s not love he’s showing

I love him, but I have to take care of myself. My mental and physical health has been seriously neglected, and I refuse to let that happen any more.

I am sorry to put you through whatever imaginary reputation damage, my life choices have thrust upon you.